Wednesday, 1 October 2008

Flower power

The bloke who sells flowers on the High Street
seems to compensate
in my imagination at least
by having cultivated a face that is scarred
by every bar-room brawl he could lay his big fat fists on
or else he practices self-harm
or else he was just blessed with being born ugly -
ugly enough
that no-one would ever accuse him
of having a modest interest in the effeminate charm of a lily
or subtle fragrance of rose.

He has the manner and sounding of a geezer -
fields of mud - from the roots and bulbs presumably -
have sunk themselves deep into his pores
to such an extent that even after sever washing
and many long baths
he still looks grubby -
like as though he is only in it for the money -
and the build of a wrestler from the 70's.

But as he rough-fists a handful of poppies
into the pastel covered paper,
something in his eyes gives the whole act away,
and you realise that deep down inside
he is a complete girl.

Girly girly girl!
Likes rough-fisting the pretty flowers.
You don't fool me!